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Brandenburg Sanitorium
On Approach... Rising above the thick growth of conifers, the asylum's edifice is a hallmark of decaying elegance, hearkening back to a century during which opulence was at its' height. A sharp contrast to the jagged shadow of towers and crenelations, the asphalt road laid out midst the sentinel trees is cracked, grass springing up between slabs of the well-worn surface. A few lone ash trees stand close to the road itself, thick branches forming a screen for light to dapple through upon the dull black surface. On one side of the road, a hundred yards from the first sight of the mass of architecture, is a four foot by four foot stone sign. It's clogged with moss, the granite still glossy beneath the coating. At one point in time, it read 'Brandenburg Sanitorium.' In the last decade, the word 'Brandenburg' has been chiseled and chipped away. Now, in flaking red paint, the sign reads 'Freak Central' with the clear lines in stone beneath reading 'Sanitorium.' No curves soften the impact of the asylum itself when the distance is reduced enough to permit details to be seen. High walls of granite extend into the depths of the surrounding woods, clogged with patches of dark moss mingling with the overgrowth of ivy. At such a distance, the sounds of the city are a muted backdrop, overlaid by the murmur of wind through leaves. Dual pairs of gates, once glossy black forged iron, hang from creaking hinges. Rust vies with the flecks of shining black paint on the elaborate whorls of leafy metal, leaving it mottled as if diseased. Through the first set of gates and across the twelve feet of gravel-laden drive to the second pair display the chipped granite gargoyles flanking the gate itself. Here the bars are heavier, more practical than ornamental, and the hinges are steel, glistening with freshly applied oil. One gargoyle lacks the end of his nose, and his ears are uneven, giving him a strangely quizzical expression. A plaque is centered in the gates, just above the latch, and the brass letters have long since been worn to blurred illegibility. Centered in the raked gravel turnaround, the triple-layered fountain has long since dried up. Broken bits of marble have fallen from the basins and the mermaid once poised in the center lies in the second level, her tail shattered below the hips. Corrugated steel shows signs of weathering, a corner of the hastily constructed sheds set against the exterior walls flapping in gusts of high winds. The scent of old motor oil, dusty canvas and chemicals rises with each breath of air, mingling with the scent of the forest itself. Broad steps of polished concrete have replaced the original marble and only the banisters leading to the dual pairs of front doors show where once grey-veined white had formed the entryway. Here a hint of industrial practicality begins to show; the doors are wire-laden, bulletproof glass, set in heavy steel. There is nothing of the asylum's overbearing stature or the air of weary elegance in those doors; they show their purpose which is to keep those within in and those without out. Broad steel bars are withdrawn, their sides visible from the exterior of the doors, and the hinges that lower them across the doorways gleam with oil. Within, the air is cool and dry, carrying the scent of neglected years. Extending on either side of the dual sets of doors is a dusty floor of patterned tile, melding into tones of cream and fading crimson. A stark contrast to the neutral tones of the exterior- the foyer's spill of light from a dome of thick, yellow-tinted glass illuminates the warm oak paneling that covers the interior walls. Triple-armed sconces add to the golden illumination, flaring vividly in the shadowy passageways. Draped across the scuffed dual staircase, enhancing the reddish tones of the wood, is a broad crimson carpet, the nap detrited and stained from years of usage. A labyrinthine manor, erected in such a way to hint at madness, spreads out from these rational doors, thick with elusive shadows and home to those who find peace in its' structure. A History Abington Towers, on a headland looking out over the Chesapeake Bay was always intended as a place of refuge and sanctuary. Built in the 1870s by Isaiah Abington, enlightened member of a long established Brandenburg family of wealthy mercantile traders, it was founded on the principles of a Utopian Paradise that were in demand at the time among the moneyed classes. The wealth of three continents flowed through the trading hub of Brandenburg. The city had exploded in size and population in just a few decades. Families like the Abingtons reaped the benefits of this new prosperity, but men like Isaiah Abington were mindful that not everyone was so fortunate. Finally, sinking a considerable portion of his share of the family fortune into it, he built Abington Towers. It was to be a fortress of solace built in the same scale and design principles as the mills and foundries that formed the basis of the Abington fortune. The Abington fortune vanished in the great financial crashes of the 1920s. With no more funds, the foundation that Isaiah Abington had left behind to ensure the safe running of the resort after his death was forced to turn it over to the city of Brandenburg. The progressive and expensive principles on which the place had been funded were abandoned almost overnight by the city authorities, and Abington Towers was sold to a private firm whom adapted it into an Asylum. It quickly descended to the level of an institutionalized and publicly-funded snakepit. Patients were routinely abused, mentally and physically, by untrained and uncaring staff who often treated their charges as if they were living exhibits in a zoo or human freakshow. To help pay for the place's upkeep, patients were also put to work on a variety of menial tasks. Abington's vision of a place of a Utopian Paradise of relaxation had now become both a workhouse and prison. It took a scandal, and the large-scale loss of life, to finally close the place down. Taking advantage of its location on the banks of the Chesapeake, the authorities had a wharf constructed there during wartime, to help ease the problems of wartime shipping congestion around the main waterfront area. It was soon kept busy, with ships arriving daily for loading with essential wartime supplies. To help in the loading, an unscrupulous chief warden was all too happy to hire his patients out as makeshift longshoremen, despite their complete unsuitability for the task. The resulting disaster was almost inevitable; the mishandling of volatile munitions that were being loaded aboard a freighter set off a chain of explosions that devastated the wharf and killed dozens of patients. The resulting investigation by the federal authorities uncovered the decades of criminal mismanagement of the place, and quickly brought about its closure, although no federal money was forthcoming to provide the city with a replacement for its largest mental hospital. Most of the surviving inmates, many of them more damaged than when they entered the place, were dumped back out onto the city streets. Many of them were dangerously violent. Just about all of them were severely mentally disturbed and in need of urgent help. Left to join the city's growing army of homeless, they would create problems on the streets that would continue for decades to come. Abington Towers lay abandoned and derelict. Ironically, some of these former inmate patients, found their way back to it within a few months of its closure. It had been a place of refuge for them before. Now it was still a sanctuary of sorts from the violent and unforgiving world of the Brandenburg streets. Next to find the place were the kids that formed the vanguard of the city's underground club scene. Turning their backs on the shallow elitist glamour of the clubs in the Needles or down on Shianxi, they first moved into the derelict warehouse of the Waterfront, starting the underground rave clubs there. The scene flourished, but the vanguard started moving out and leaving it behind when criminal gangs like the Blood Roses started moving in and turning the scene into their own royal court. The vanguard moved on, looking for somewhere distinct but remote, far from the cops and the gangs. They found what they were looking for at Abington. Even though it was built like a fortress, it was too far away from the action to make it a useful base of operations for any of the main street gangs. The BPD had it on their radar - it had long been a refuge for outcasts and fugitives - but it had been deemed low priority. There were too many other more pressing calls on Departmental resources to ever organize a full sweep of the place's labyrinth of corridors and galleries. Soon those same spaces were stamped with the marks of its new occupants, and light and music blazed out of the Tower at night. Few outsiders noticed at first, but slowly word got out that something interesting was happening at Abington. It was a place where you could do your own thing, free of interference from the cops, from the media, from the criminals, from the entrepreneurs and money men. Trends started there and burned themselves out over the course of a single long weekend, gone before the first blog reports of them were ever written. Half a dozen club parties could be happening at any one time inside its spacious galleries. Headland. Psi-KO. INsanity. Trance/Send. The Snakepit. ECT. Thorazeen. Rephuge. Psycho-Tropic. They came and went faster than anyone could keep track of them. Some of them flourished and moved on, exporting some of the scene happening at the Tower to the underground club night circuit back in the city. They always came back to where they started, though, and every time they did they brought new recruits with them. In the Current Day Discovered by Seifer d'Latu, the asylum still held a few hidden individuals using the buildings as shelter against the encroaching winter. When he obtained the papers for the property, Seifer cleared out the current 'residents' and began refurbishing the asylum for his own usage. Its' location at the edge of the city limits provided enough privacy for all of the alterations that needed to be done while keeping the city close enough for business purposes. Although there is quite a bit of traffic coming and going from the asylum, the high walls and main gates remain. The asylum, largely forgotten by all but those seeking to find a good time or prove their courage, is coming back to life through Seifer's efforts. A large number of 'freaks' have begun to gravitate towards it, and there's a changing air in the once-silent halls.